


You're My Exception

by foxghost



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Anal Sex, Humor, Kink Meme, M/M, Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxghost/pseuds/foxghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/8469.html?thread=32460053#t32460053">Prompt</a>
</p><p> </p><p> "Anders thinks Varric is straight and treats him like the most friend-zoned of bros--stripping down in front of him after messy battles, casually discussing past sexual exploits, sharing tents and then sleeping in his underwear, etc.</p><p>Finally Varric is like, "Are you trying to drive me insane?" and Anders is like "Wait you're interested?"</p><p>Part PWP, part humour, and so interwoven it's kind of hard to extricate one from the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're My Exception

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a fit of writing frenzy, giggling the whole way. Thought about not owning up to it afterwards, but read it again after a few days and I still laughed at it, so - what the heck.

In the Circle, everyone was kissing everyone. Mages were all equal – men, women, elves, if one was a mage then one was at the bottom rung of the social ladder anyway, and people did like to say that mages had to stick together. Literally and creatively.

Anders, with his long sleek blond hair, the talent to make bedroom eyes, and the penchant for flamboyant robes, had no trouble getting anyone he wanted to kiss him. Outside the Circle, however, there was a certain taboo to making eyes at men in pubs. What was more, the person he most wanted to flaunt his golden eyelashes – among other things – at was being completely oblivious.

Anders allowed his glance to drift downwards, to a pelt of thick and luxurious looking chest hair, then back up over the tanned skin dusted over with gold, all the way to his strong jaw and thick eyebrows and – well, Anders wasn't about to get up from his chair any time soon.

“He's not into humans,” Hawke leaned over and whispered in his ear. “But Merrill and I are open to threesomes.”

Anders just gave her the look of death. With Hawke, maybe. With Merrill? No blood magic in bed, thank you.

It was hard to tell who or what Varric was into, aside from his crossbow. It was a very nice crossbow, but Anders didn't know swords from the pointy end of his staff. Not that he needed to provide conversation points; Varric loved the sound of his own voice so there was never awkward silences.

If he was to be honest with himself, Anders loved the sound of his own voice too. They had so much in common. But when Varric opened his mouth to talk, which was all the time, Anders wanted to stay quiet and listen.

If that wasn't love, Anders didn't know what was.

“Never have I ever ... touched Varric's chest hair,” Aveline said. The night was young, if that was as risque as they all got by this point.

Everyone else drank. Except for Anders.

He gave Varric an accusatory look, “when was this chest hair stroking party and why was I not invited?”

“You're welcome to it, Blondie,” Varric quipped, leaning over the table enough that the circular pendant he wore cast a shadow over his chest.

There was no saying no, with everyone's drunken eyes on him, and he barely even had enough to feel tipsy, let alone brave. Anders reached out and touched it anyway, running his fingers down to the point of the 'V' of Varric's shirt. It got thicker on the way down.

Anders had a mental image of how far it went, and he was glad the night was young. Plenty of time to calm down enough to walk again. Absentmindedly, he stroked his fingers back up.

Hawke whistled, “I believe the temperature is going up.”

“Do I get to watch?” Isabela tapped the bottom of her glass against the table.

“You _are_ watching, Rivaini,” Varric smiled, torchlight reflecting off of a roguish, crooked grin.

The broke the spell, and Anders withdrew his hand. He thought he felt a slight shiver as his fingers left Varric's skin, but he probably imagined it.

Varric wasn't into humans, or elves, and most likely, not into men.

Isabela once told him he could be the paragon of manliness, and Anders agreed with her assessment wholeheartedly. Varric was perfect down to the angular jut of his chin.

“Never have I ever ... taken it up the arse,” said Hawke, and that was more in the line of their usual evening.

Anders took a drink, still looking longingly at Varric's chest as he did so. Then Sebastian also took a shot and he must have been quite drunk, because he winked at Anders.

Varric banged his mead on the table so hard half of it spilled down and right on to Anders. When Anders looked up again, after discreetly dabbing at his crotch with his sleeve to get most of the alcohol out, Varric was pointedly not looking at him.

Well, that just about confirmed it then. Ah well. At least they could be friends.

 

*

 

The mage was driving him crazy. On purpose. There was no other way to explain this.

“You should take that duster off. It's such a hot night out.”

So he said, sitting there in nothing but his small clothes and lying sideways on his bedroll like a display at the Rose, all smooth pink skin covered in a sheen of sweat and a sparse trail of dark gold hair thickening downward towards his -

-No. Definitely not taking the duster off.

“Dwarves never take their overcoats off. You should know that by now,” if anything, Varric was good at the _spin._ He spun, “it's all about living underground near all that lava.”

Anders rolled onto his front and laid his head on his crossed arms. He looked sidelong at Varric, heat-lazy eyes half closed. At least he didn't have to look at the man's lean, defined abs now, but now there was that arse covered in cloth so threadbare it was practically see-through, its lack of colour blending into the backs of his creamy white thighs. Varric coughed.

“See, Orzammar is in a volcano, and pretty much all the thighs – thaigs – have lava running through it, and it's very, um, hot,” Varric felt the sweat trickling into his eyebrows, and their tent was getting warmer and he wasn't just talking about temperature, “so dwarves are very cold weather adverse, but we can take the heat.”

Life wasn't fair; some people snored and the sound was annoying, some people slept like the dead and was easy to share a tent with. Anders snored quietly like a cat's purr, and he tossed and turned in his sleep. Some time in the night he threw an arm over Varric's hip and nuzzled into the back of his neck.

Varric was so hard he could have used his cock to beat steel over an anvil. Being a dwarf easily affected by his own words, 'steel' and 'beat' repeated themselves in his head and his hand crept down to the laces of his pants. He was only going to loosen it, honest, because touching oneself next to someone who trusted him so much he was comfortable to sleep practically naked to was, well, dishonourable.

He was never one to put much stock in words like 'honour,' however. After all, Varric had a set of lockpicks in his pocket and an ample supply of miasmic flasks and he was not above using them.

One caveat; in the inky blackness of their tent in the middle of the night, he couldn't see where Anders' hand was, and it was probably somewhere in the vicinity of his crotch because that would have just epitomized their relationship. Anders was brazen and open, but always threw in words like 'best friend' or 'brother I never had' which made what went on in Varric's head especially creepy to himself.

Varric turned a little away from Anders, rocking a few times to get that arm off of him and to put some distance between his own body and the warm, sticky mess that was Anders on a hot Free Marches summer night. Those words didn't help either, and the chain of association thing he usually did with his stories supplied 'writhing' and 'moaning' to the list, and that left him no choice but to pull the laces entirely out of their loops and set himself free.

He was going to look very strange wearing his coat in the night and covered by a blanket, but if he was to choose between getting caught with his pants down jerking off next to someone who called him best friend or covered in a blanket on a sweltering night, the choice was clear as day.

Anders' hands were probably softer, with callouses in different places, and permanently smelled of elfroot. Varric still had his gloves on, and he was thankful that he loved the little luxuries in life, down to the soft leather gloves with its tight, barely noticeable seams and the way it glided on his skin as he smoothed a thumb over the tip of his cock.

He tried to imagine that it was soft, white fingers, light freckles over the skin, Anders running the rough, colloused pads over the ridge and down a prominent vein. Varric held his other gloved hand in his mouth, just to remind himself not to narrate out loud. Then the word 'mouth' came into play, and the grip he had around himself became pouty lips and the rough, moist touch of tongue, tantalizing images of Blondie's golden hair falling out of its tie and over his cheeks, hollowed out from sucking.

Blondie would have made low, moaning sounds, as though instead of a cock in his mouth it was candy or even ice cream, something to savor on a hot day just like this one. Then his imagination must have really took over because the sound of Anders' voice drawled out 'Varric,' and he was so close, with words like 'cream' and 'savor' and 'hot' egging him on.

There was the sound of someone flipping over next to him, and Varric froze, gloved hand in mid-stroke. He knew he was quiet, but he wasn't sure how quiet he was for the last few seconds, with passion overtaking sense in its urgency.

“It's too hot, Varric. I can't sleep.”

Fuck. Fuckity fuck. And that word didn't help either, because that was exactly what Varric wished he was doing, but there was a mostly naked best friend mage in his tent that he in all good conscience shouldn't touch, and said mage was awake so Varric couldn't even touch himself.

Varric rolled onto this front, right on top of his raging erection, and pretended to be asleep.

 

*

 

Anders didn't know why he agreed to this. Again. It was as though a part of his brain was permanently damaged, and Hawke had a way of getting right at it, and when she did Anders would just about agree to anything.

This time, she made it sound as though she did it for him, “I can't possibly take money off Anders. I can't imagine that any of you can, if you have a conscience at all.”

She was blatantly staring now, as he took the hair tie out as a piece of clothing. It was that or his smallclothes, and as much as he found the woman attractive, he just wasn't into the idea of her pegging him into the bed, which was alluded to on multiple occasions.

“Varric, can I sit net to you? Hawke's leering at me again,” and Varric didn't say yes but he didn't say no, and the drink was so high in front of his face that Anders couldn't very well read whether that was a blush or an agreeable mead flush.

He crowded in with Varric at the head of the table. If he was to lose his small clothes, at least she would have to duck under the table to check out his junk.

Of course, he lost the next hand, and he thanked the Maker that he was tucked in next to Varric. Anders moved his chair closer to the table and stuck his thumbs under his waist bands and began wriggling out of it.

“Okay. That's it. Everyone _out,_ ” Varric said, just as Anders had his smalls around his ankles. Varric raised his mug, one last cheer for everyone, “not you, Blondie. You keep yourself under the table until Hawke leaves.”

“You're no fun,” Hawke gave Varric the finger, both hands, and Varric responded in kind.

If he wasn't going to get a piece of Anders, neither was Hawke. Especially since she was already with Merrill and at least Varric was emotionally invested.

When at last they were alone, Varric had to clench and unclench his hands a few times to keep them from throwing Anders on the bed. It was conveniently located to the left, not three feet away, behind a curtain.

Anders smiled sweetly at him, again, too close for comfort, “thank you, Varric.”

“You're very welcome, Blondie. Now why don't you get dressed so you can get home,” he replied, smooth as silk, not a wrinkle in his smile to betray his discomfort.

Let it be said that Varric had shown the greatest of restraint, right up until the moment where Anders got up from his chair, completely ignoring the fact that he was alone with Varric and naked, and bent over at his waist to fish for his smallclothes.

Anders had this inability to be aware of his nudity, especially in the presence of Varric, who did not leer. Varric had to remind himself that Blondie grew up in a dormitary, and after that he was in the Wardens, and people who lived in an army barracks simply did not check to see if the door was closed before taking their armour off.

Varric was not one to gamble when friendship was on the line, but he had to face this sooner or later, and Anders was rather forcing him to face it right now. There was a very nude Anders in his suite, they were completely alone, and he was willingly bending over.

He took his chances and tackled the mage. There was a somewhat empty spot near the middle of the table, and using the quick reflexes that made him such a dashing – he hoped – rogue, flipped Anders onto his back on the table, and caught his lips in one breath.

There was a confusion of limbs and a surprised 'hmmph' from Anders, on account of him not being able to speak with Varric's mouth over his. Varric pulled back with a sudden feeling that he just made a grave mistake, the mage was truly not interested and his advances unwelcome, but Anders threw his arms around Varric's neck, stopping him from moving away completely.

“I thought you said you weren't into humans,” Anders asked.

Varric did remember saying that, but he was referring to Hawke. Anders was a category all his own, but he had a feeling that if he said that out loud, the mage would be offended.

“Do you want me to stop?” He was good at that. Deflecting. All of a sudden it wasn't about him, it was about what Anders wanted.

“Maker, no,” and Anders lunged at him, hungry lips that were just as soft as Varric had imagined, running a hand down his open shirt and combing his fingers down Varric's chest hair.

Varric felt overdressed. He was overdressed. Varric took off the everpresent gloves first, flinging them behind him without a glance. Then it was the duster and stopping the kiss long enough to pull his shirt over his head, hands running down into his belt buckle and kicking his pants off.

“The bed is right over there,” Anders spoke into his lips. There was logic in that – no pewter mugs to push away, silky sheets and soft mattress. Varric ran his hands down the mage's sides, then mouthed at his neck, trailing bites and kisses down to where his neck met his shoulder.

“Too far,” he mumbled into the lightly tanned skin at Anders' collar, a sharp contrast to he rest of him, always covered and unfreckled. Reaching behind him with a foot, he kicked up the duster and caught it with one hand. Wrapping an arm around the mage, he slipped the duster on to the table, then rolled Anders right back on top of it.

“Someone is impatient,” Anders had his ankles hooked behind Varric; exactly who was he calling impatient? Varric reached inside the duster pocket and drew out a warmth balm and placed it on the table top.

He flipped the mage over, setting Anders' knees on the floor so that Varric could stand behind him, the edge of the low table at the perfect height of his hips, “I've been waiting a long time, Blondie.”

Anders wanted to ask how long and when and he had all these questions, but Varric was pressing a balm coated finger into him, and all of those questions got filed under later, in deference for his moans and pleas for more.

For someone so impatient, Varric was being as thorough as he was when he was polishing his crossbow. Anders was honoured, really, because to be treated with the same courtesy as Bianca must mean something, but feelings were also relegated to the realm of later and at this very moment he just wanted Varric to _hurry up already._

“Varric, just put it in!” Anders pushed back on the fingers, rocking on his knees. He briefly felt Varric's member against his stomach earlier, hard as the stone that dwarves supposedly came from, and it certainly did not feel dwarf-sized.

“I'm not going to rush this,” from what he knew of Blondie, he hadn't been with anyone for years. Varric took his time preparing, scissoring his fingers and adding a third one to the mix, crooking them downwards and massaging in the right places until the mage was a quivering mess.

Then finally - _finally_ \- Varric was pushing into him, one fraction of an inch at a time, and Anders had just about enough of waiting, “Varric, if you take any longer, I'm going to throw a fireball at your head.”

Well, that did it. Varric slid all the way into him in one long, smooth stroke, picking up the pace immediately. Anders dug his fingers into the duster, surrounding himself with Varric's scent, cured leather and metal polish, and something else that was definitely not dwarven ale. The end of the coat, hanging over the table, brushed his erection every time Varric snapped his hips forward, pulling Anders back against him.

Anders felt the brush of soft hair against his arse, but as much as he wanted to look, he couldn't control his motions enough to crane his head. Varric was rough, hardly waited any time for him to adjust, and each withdrawal and re-entry brushed a spot inside of him that made Anders see stars.

Pain faded quickly to hot, melting pleasure, and Anders rutted against the hem of Varric's coat and pushed himself back onto Varric's cock, and too soon he felt the pressure building in the pit of his stomach and the unmistakable tightness in the way his balls lifted away from his body, “harder! Yes! Harder!”

Somewhere in the dark recesses of Varric's mind, he pondered the effectiveness of magic in cleaning semen off leather. He did so love that leather duster. Maybe they should have moved to the bed, after all.

Well, fuck. He could always get a new coat, but Blondie was irreplaceable, Also, he didn't want his hair catching on fire – he was rather fond of it. Varric acquiesced with the 'harder' request, practically slamming the mage into the edge of the table if not for the soft garment under them cushioning the impact.

Anders screamed out his name, shuddered under him, grasping Varric so hard with his internal spasms that it pulled Varric over the edge, running commentary to distract himself from a climax notwithstanding. His seed slickened Anders' channel some more for the last, final thrusts, irregular and too fast, wrenching more whimpers out of the mage beneath him.

Varric collasped on top of Anders' back, resting his stubbled chin in between those angular shoulderblades.

“Can we go to bed now?” Anders asked, the hardness of the table edge digging into his stomach and something sharp that was probably splinters in his knees reminding him that their present position wasn't exactly comfortable.

They dragged themselves to bed, and once they settled in, Anders was _talking_ again, “I thought you weren't interested. In men, I mean.”

Varric considered what he was going to say without revealing too much; he wasn't interested in other humans, or other men either, but that sounded like a commitment.

“Let's just say I'm making an exception for you, Blondie, and leave it at that.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] You're My Exception](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10896909) by [BabelGhoti (TheHandmadeTale)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHandmadeTale/pseuds/BabelGhoti)




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